therapy

It wasn’t until I hit my twenties that I ever remember hearing anyone discuss the topic of mental illness like it was an actual thing you could take yourself to the doctor for.

You see, every time we watch The Lion King — every freakin’ time Mufasa dies — her small fists ball up, her nose and brows furrow, and tears well up in her eyes. But instead of worrying about herself, she asks “Mommy, what happen? Dis sad?” She pauses and waits for my response, but when I let silence linger a moment too long, she asks again, “Dis sad, Mommy? Dis sad?”

I went to my first therapist when I was a teenager. My family was dysfunctional to the point of being non-functional. If a decision needed to be made about custody arrangements, my parents were incapable of making it without me. Instead, I was the mediator (and had been since I was a young child), speaking first to my father on the phone and then relaying the message to my mother.

A few years ago, my boyfriend of two years and I went to couple's therapy. To say our relationship was falling apart would have been an understatement.

I firmly believe that every person on the planet could benefit from therapy. I myself have been going to therapy every week for about four years and don't plan on stopping.

These days parenting has been the biggest subject in my life. I’m living it, breathing it and recently started going to therapy because of it. Since having my daughter, two-years-ago, I’ve been at odds with my own parents, who, I’ve come to realize parented me in a much different way than how I’m parenting my daughter.

Because technology can be a beautiful thing.

All bets were off after 9/11. In a twisted way, it proved to me that worry was fruitless. No one ever saw the terrorist attacks coming.